


In Legacy’s Wake

by HealthcareDOTgov



Category: Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Heaven’s Feel Pseudo-Ending, Mid-Canon, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27912877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HealthcareDOTgov/pseuds/HealthcareDOTgov
Summary: Born from the legacy of the late, true deity of darkness, Angra Mainyu was a curse unto himself. The first Avenger? What a joke. He was nothing more than a puppet that a god used to get the last laugh. But when a whim on the brink of death brings him into contact with the hero of justice who had mutually assured their destruction, maybe he still has his own legacy to carve. Oneshot
Kudos: 7





	In Legacy’s Wake

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey, this is Healthcare. Cross posting this from FF.net, since I figured I might as well spice up my profile here. 
> 
> See you at the bottom!

**Somewhere, sometime, at the end of the world**

Two clatters echoed throughout the empty space as twin fangs fell to the ground. Their owner followed shortly after. Struggling to his knees, the darkened figure looked up to the one he despised. Cloaked in omniscient light, he could only muster contempt at he who struck him down. Ahura Mazda, Ormazd, the Creator, he carried many names. But what mattered to the dark man was one word. 

“Father,” Ahriman looked upon the deity of light with scorn.

“You have lost, Ahriman,” Ahura Mazda said, easily and evenly. Ahriman’s scowl only grew. Of course he had lost. He was the weakest son of two, fighting a retreating battle against the embodiment of all that was good in the world. The forces of his father and his twin, Spenta Mainyu. That didn’t stop him from trying, of course. It was in his nature, rather, the path he chose. He always wanted something on Spenta. He had killed his mother to be born first, he had built an entire army of demons just to spite him, and in the end, he tried to kill him.

Struggling to his feet, All The World’s Evils’ stance wavered for a moment before he scooped Zawrich from off the floor and attempted to thrust the wicked blade into Ahura Mazda’s throat in a furious, if not futile, attempt to take his father with him. He never stood a chance though, as Ahura Mazda merely flared with omnipotent power, sending Ahriman flying back, Zawrich flying from his grip once more as he hit the floor. The world around him was pitch black and it was only getting darker. He could vaguely hear his father mumbling something, but his consciousness had slipped so far that he could barely see his own hands in front of his face. 

Nevertheless, his mind sharpened for a fraction of a second longer. He refused to let it end like this. Ahriman may die, but his legacy would be felt. It must be felt. That was all he was after all. The embodiment of envy, pain, destruction, and all that was wrong with the human soul. If he couldn’t take his father, he might as well take the mortals’ dignity.

Reaching out with what little divine power he had left, he found what he was looking for. A small village in the Persian countryside. Rolling fields of farms and ranches, plenty of middle-aged and able-bodied people working happily, all of them practicing the doctrine of his father. But they were not him, but mere shadows of his creation. He could influence them. Stretching his last vestiges of influence, Ahriman planted the seeds of doubt in the elder’s minds. Then to the farmers. To young children. Smirking, he opened his eyes and shook the dreariness from his mind. Shooting one last glare at his father, that was the last he would see as Ahriman, the god of darkness, was erased from existence, gone to the other side of the world.

But his legacy would live on.

He made sure of it.

  
  


In a happy village, there lived a boy. 

He was an average boy. Not too short, not too tall. He had a mother and a father, two sisters, as well as a loving aunt and uncle, with many cousins.

He had no real hobbies or talents, rather content to laze around in the shade of his favourite tree on a hill in between his shifts on the family farm.

Life was good as far as he was concerned. There was a routine, and he was perfectly content. Little did he know things would change.

It all started when he found a pair of peculiar pieces of bones sticking out of a stump near his favourite lounging spot. Curiously, they were wrapped with cloth in the form of handles. They looked to be someone else’s so he didn’t touch them. That didn’t mean he wasn’t interested though. He was drawn to these mysterious artifacts for a reason he couldn’t explain. He shrugged it off, however, as he had chores to do. 

But then the people around him began to act strangely.

It started with the old men. They would begin to shoot him strange looks whenever they passed by him in the fields. He paid them no mind. They were wiser than him, and would naturally see things he couldn’t and chalked it up to either newfound clarity or simply the elders going senile. But then it was the other teens. They would start avoiding him more and more. Saying they had something to do, parents were calling, or extra chores. The boy supposed he couldn’t refute that. Harvest was coming up and they needed new baskets anyways.

But when his extended family began to turn away from him, he grew worried. What was he doing wrong? Nevertheless, he was a boy on the cusp of becoming a man. He didn’t need to voice these concerns. There was work to be done anyway. 

However, one day, as he sat in relaxed silence under the shade of the tree on the hill, his father approached him. He had a flat look on his face, one that he seldom saw. The last time he had seen that look was when grandfather had passed, and that was years ago. 

“Father? What is i--” he couldn’t finish before his father struck him over the head with a farming hoe. The boy knocked unconscious instantly.

Upon waking up, he was bound to a pole in some kind of shack. Across from him were the village elders. “Elders? What’s going on? W-What happened?!” He struggled against his binds futilely but winced as they bit into his wrists. His head was throbbing from where his father had hit him as well, but he nevertheless focused on the elders before him.

“We have decided,” one spoke. “We cannot devote ourselves to Him completely so long as evil exists in us. Thus, you shall be that evil.”

“What? How-- AGH!” The boy’s words were cut off as the elder slashed him with a ceremonial dagger. There was no warning. The blade glinted in the faint light like a firefly. The elder wielded it with purpose as if it were a brush. This very blade had been used to sacrifice animals for the divines. Now it was turned on him.

“I’m sorry, boy. But this is for the good of the village. Of humanity. You will become our evils. The world’s evils.”

“N-No… please…” The boy cried out again as the elder slashed again. “P-Please, STOP! PLEASE!!”

They never did. The elder cut again with another precise stroke. Blood flowed freely from the new wound, a jagged symbol marring his tanned skin.

After hours of gruelling torture, they bound his wounds and left him in a comatose state. He was no longer crying, merely remaining still. As if pretending he didn’t exist would absolve him of the sins forced onto him. The elders had carved symbols and curses into his skin. Burned his hands and feet. Beat him and starved him. Yet they still treated his wounds, so that he would not die. At this point, that was all he wanted. Death. 

But he couldn’t seem to die.

This would continue for four days and four nights.

Sometime on the fifth day, he awoke on the side of the dusty road. He wore nothing but a ragged waistcloth and the bandages that covered his body. Wincing, he began to unwrap them. Under the cloth was a sight that made the boy cry. The wounds he had received formed a network of curses, painful reminders of the torture he had experienced. Of the sin he now carried.

That boy had died when they drew the first stroke of the knife. No, he was now a paragon of evil. The wind whispered to him as if to spite the young man further.

_ Welcome back, Angra Mainyu. _

Struggling to his feet, the boy, no, Angra stumbled back towards his family’s house. Even walking hurt him as the burns on his feet bubbled and blistered against the hot rock of the midday sun. Limping towards the front door, the people around him either ignored him completely or fixed him with looks of scorn and hatred. Even Angra himself felt like hating who he was.

Practically falling through the doorway, he clutched onto the walls to prevent him from losing his balance. Waiting for him was the stony face of the man he wished to see. 

“Father…” Angra mumbled in despair. “Father, what do I do?”

His father merely looked upon him with contempt. “Father? You have none. For you are no son of mine, Angra Mainyu.”

“...what?” Angra let himself slip to his knees, a crestfallen expression on his features. “...n-no… this can't be r-real…”

As if the pain from the four nights of torture wasn’t enough, this final push was what snapped him. All reason was gone as he stared blankly at the floor. 

“Now leave my home, demon, before you bring harm to  _ my  _ family.” Angra looked up, only to be met with a harsh blow to his head. Crying out for the umpteenth time, he clutched his newest wound as he tearfully slunk out the door and towards the outskirts of the town. 

To the protest of his burning soles, he forced himself into a jog. All the way out of the village. Back to that tree on the dusty hill. Slumping against the dry bark, Angra let out a low moan as he clutched his head wound, as if the pressure would alleviate his pain. Ripping a long, ragged strip from his waistcloth, he wrapped the makeshift bandage around his head. He would’ve used the bandages that had been covering his other wounds first, but he had long since wrapped those around his hands and the bottom of his feet to avoid direct contact with his burns.

All of his wounds ached something fierce, but nevertheless, he felt a calling. He stood up wearily, his mind a mess but nevertheless only focused on one location. The two pieces of bone were still wedged deep into the block of wood. Somehow, his hands were guided to the twin fangs before him. Wrapping his sore and bruised fingers around the handles, he pulled the blades free from their wooden prison. 

It was a strange catharsis that Angra couldn’t quite place his finger on. It was like these blades belonged in his hands. He felt powerful. Despite all his wounds, Angra felt like he could take on anyone. Or at least all of those  _ dirty bastards that tortured him and kicked him to the road who deserved to bu _ \- no, NO! That wasn’t him!  _ But it was now.  _ It still wasn’t right!

Snapping himself out of his trance, Angra fell backwards onto the dusty ground. Why was he thinking like this? He was-- no, NO! He wasn’t him! HE WASN’T!!

Clutching his hands to his head, he wailed and wailed into his palms. His mind felt like it was splitting itself apart, his entire body throbbed and ached. All the while, he felt like he was being bathed in the flames of hell as he began to heat up. He never noticed when the villagers grabbed him again and threw him in a small stone room atop a nearby mountain. All he felt was pain. 

As the red hot sensation faded from his body, that sole feeling was replaced with something much, much, stronger. Hate. He hated them. He despised them. What did he ever do? Why him? Why? WHY?! Angra slammed his head into the walls of his small stone prison over and over and over, feeling the blood rush down his scarred face and forehead. In those bursts of pain, he found that his mind cleared ever so slightly.  _ This… this isn’t like me!  _

Those bitter thoughts would clash with his better conscience as he remained trapped within the stone room that would be his grave. Nevertheless, with every wound inflicted, with every drop of blood spilt, he could feel that part of his psyche crumble. This would not stand. He would not last. The minutes turned into hours and the hours into days. Days into months and so forth as his mind slowly broke. The cruel march of time soldiered onwards as Angra sank deeper into his despair, the curses marring his body taking on more and more meaning.

Day in, day out, they would torture him. Beat him, starve him, carving into his flesh like a fresh roast and leave him bleeding red waterfalls all over the floor. But they would never let him die. Later, they chained him in a position where he could not move an inch, as they knew that no sooner did they let him free would he take the opportunity to dash his brains against his stone prison. After all, he had tried before. The tortured existence that was Angra Mainyu eventually ended, but it was after decades of prolonged suffering, not of his wounds, but of old age. The life of a fake idol, a twisted attempt to create some form of All The World’s Evils, was over… but he still had a job to do. The Holy Grail recognized his twisted life, his saga of suffering, as an act of heroism. He would fight on forever, he would never rest.

_ Welcome back to the world, Avenger. _

  
  


To think that these morbid thoughts would come back to haunt him in his final moments. Why the hell would he be thinking about this anyway? Spending his time inside the Grail had filled his mind like rushing water upon a stone. Years of inactivity and the Grail’s coercion had caused his mind to shut down, becoming nothing but a shadow, a drone attempting to accomplish the bizarre goal of birthing himself. Only when he was on the brink again did he feel his mind ease itself back into stark, painful clarity. Time seemed to slow as he looked out before him. There was one body who stood before him, with hair as red as the setting sun and a body perforated with blades of untold number. During his hazy tenure within the Holy Grail, he had seen all that Fuyuki had gone through, and while his work as the Grail had left his scars, he still found himself incomplete. He couldn’t grant any meaningful wish. He knew that his duty as the grail was ultimately autonomous, but in the end, his nature as All The World’s Evils shone through. He was the end-all, be-all source of wrath, suffering, and avarice. His own greed knew no bounds. At least, all he wanted was…

_ No.  _ This wasn’t the time or place. Thinking about it wasn’t going to help his cause anyways. The boy before him… Emiya, was it? Shirou Emiya was going to kill him no matter what. So without a second thought, he reached out to the boy… that  _ hero of justice  _ who was about to strike him down and pulled him into his embrace. He was still the Grail, after all. He had done the same with the elder Emiya of the previous war, after all. This time, however, there was no malice, no congratulations of victories in morbid battle royales, none of that. For Shirou Emiya was to live. The presence of that Einzbern girl told him more than enough. But that’s too much thinking. Too much energy that he should be using for the conversation he was about to have.

The void was something that he was familiar with. Pitch blackness was the only courtesy he could afford his guest. Across from him was the tired form of Shirou, looking about as confused as one could be. Deciding to take the initiative, the Grail, no, Angra Mainyu, took form, melting out of the void into a body that the boy would wholly recognize. 

**“Hey,”** a voice from behind him.

Shirou Emiya turned to see a figure emerge from the darkness surrounding him. Puzzled as he was, having been ripped from the chamber beneath Mt. Endo to this murky void, he found himself face-to-face with… himself?! An aura of malevolence permeated the air as he stared back at the enigma before him. It was… unsettling like. He felt chills running across his body as if ice water had pooled at the base of his spine and was sending shivers through his nerves. He resisted the urge to vomit then and there. W-Why did it look like him?  **Why did it look like him?!**

**“Oi, easy there, hero.”** The version of himself before him was covered from head to toe in what could only be described as curses, vicious scars carved in malice and hatred. His hair wasn’t his rusty colour, but jet black, as well as the fact that his skin wasn’t as fair as his too. Perhaps someone from the Indic regions? Shirou couldn’t quite place it, but the one thing he was sure of was the horrible feeling bubbling up in his gut. Wrenching the fear from his mind and staring back at the figure, he tentatively let out his voice. 

“W-Who… who are you?” Was all he could bear to say.

**“Take a guess, bud,”** was the response. Shirou knew, of course. They were trying to kill each other mere moments ago. 

“...Angra… Mainyu.”

**“Bingo. Welcome to the Holy Grail, Shirou Emiya,”** Angra shot him a smirk and a thumbs-up as he began to circle the boy. Seemed like him and Kirei had a lot more in common than just nihilism and a desire to see the world burn.  **“You know, your pops once stood in the place you are right now.”**

“H-He was?” Shirou responded, a look of open shock on his face.

**“Yep. It’s customary of the Grail to congratulate the victors, after all. Not that either of us are winning anything, though,”** Angra let out a bitter chuckle.  **“And I suppose it’s not really customary if I’ve only done it once. Damn Grail hasn’t really given me a lot of chances to get out and stretch my legs. You know how shitty it feels to live inside a cup? Not fun, I tell you.”**

Shirou just stood there in silence.

**“Anyways, you’re here because I felt like it. Since you’re not looking to have some conversation, I’d better send you back. She’s waiting for you, after all.”**

“What do you mean? Sakura? I-I should be dead, and there’s no way she’d want to see me after I’ve become a monster like this…” Shirou’s face took on a look of sober realization as he looked up at the man. Angra regarded the boy with a blank look. 

**“You really think that, huh,** **_Hero of Justice,_ ** **”** he muttered. Shirou’s attention whipped back to him.

“Don’t call me that! After everything I’ve put them through, after everything I’ve done and said! I can’t be called that anymore! That ideal that Kiritsugu wanted… that ideal that I threw away! I HAVE NO RIGHT TO BE A—“

**“Shut the fuck up! That archer was right, you really are spineless,”** Angra and Shirou both stared at each other as the redhead’s contempt melted away into confusion again. 

“W-Wha-“ 

**“Hush. I’m speaking now,”** All the World’s Evils fixed him with a glare that could kill a lesser man. Shirou’s glare wavered and his face screamed of various emotions, but he held his tongue.  **“Sakura Matou. The girl who was to be my vessel. Regardless of what you did, you saved her life. You saved** **_the world_ ** **with your sacrifice. You may not have lived up to your original ideal, but you are still a hero. You’re** **_her_ ** **hero. And that means you still have something to live for.”**

“What are you talking about?” Shirou choked out.

**“I mean that you still have a life to return to. You may not be the hero you wanted to be, but I’ll be damned more than I already am if I let someone like you fade away.”**

“No, but why are you doing this, Angra Mainyu?! Why are you doing this for me?!” Shirou’s face contorted into an emotion unspeakable. A mix of confusion and rage. Why would someone, who by all means, had  _ ruined  _ his life, want to help a washed-up wannabe like him? Why?

**“Why, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m the Holy Grail, after all, and right now, there are people wishing for you to come home,”** Angra’s smirk returned.  **“Shirou Emiya, you have a peaceful, everyday life ahead of you. Something that I wished for, but could never obtain, despite this power I find myself with. I refuse to let you squander that.”**

At that moment, a look of realization dawned on Shirou’s face. “You’re… not really Angra Mainyu, are you?”

Angra froze.

**“...sheesh. Here I thought you were supposed to be the dumb one. Don’t worry about it, bud. Not like I was doing this solely for you. Time’s up anyway,”** Angra gestured to a non-existent watch.  **“Time to go, Shirou Emiya.”**

At that moment, the world behind Shirou began to glow with a bright, white light, cutting through the darkness like a scythe. The boy began to float and fall backwards into the light as he left the Grail’s domain.

“NO! Wait! I… I can bring you back! You’re the Grail, right? I can wish for you! I can help you!” Shirou cried out, reaching for his shadowy doppelgänger. Angra’s smirk fell away again to reveal a melancholic smile.

**“You said you weren’t a hero, right? There’s no helping me where I’m going. Hell, you won’t even remember any of this anyway. Not with those swords stickin’ outta you. Bet there’s one going clean through your head right now,”** Angra waved at the floating boy, who was thrashing in a vain attempt to swim towards him. His smile thinned as he turned away.  **“This is the last chance you get, Shirou. Don’t waste it. Don’t end up a bitter motherfucker like I did.”**

Shirou was about to say something, but he faded back into reality before he could do so. Thus, leaving behind Angra Mainyu, alone once more, in the darkness of his own making. Standing in silence amongst the black void, Angra could feel his grip on the Grail begin to slip as the Greater Grail began to fail. 

**“You really wanted to help me, huh? After everything I had done, you stupid brat? I was damned anyway,”** he chuckled to himself. Back to the void he goes, huh? At least he was getting familiar with it right now. But his words kept ringing out in his head. The words of someone who tried so desperately hard to be a hero and failed, yet still became one anyway. 

**“Man, how fucking pathetic can you get?”** Angra muttered, planting a palm over his face as he eased himself onto the floor, sprawling out his limbs like roadkill as the shadows clogged his mind and wrestled with his consciousness. Everything around him returned to being pitch black, and it was only getting darker.  **“Dealing with those goddamn heroes of justice tires me out.”**

As he prepared to let oblivion take him, he still felt… unfulfilled. Strange, as he thought dealing with that Emiya boy would’ve tied up all his loose ends. His own words echoed in his head. **_“I’m the Holy Grail, after all.”_** He winced at those words because he knew what they meant to him as well. Because despite everything that had happened, _he_ _still hadn’t granted a single wish._

**“...you know what? Gonna have to call a rain check on that ‘death’ thing, fate. Still have a job to do, or something like that.”** Working himself to his feet, he shook the shadows from his head and reached out with whatever power he had left within the wish granter he had been trapped in for the past three wars. He searched for something… anything that he could grant. One last effort to fulfill himself. After all, being the root of all sins and evils, his avarice knew no bounds, right? He just wanted something for himself, that was all. 

The tendrils of his influence waned but he still looked and looked for a wish to grant. His physical body melted away as he sank further and further into his search. Out from Mt. Endo to the temple and forest beyond. Down into Fuyuki City and across that bright red bridge, his consciousness spread out throughout the side streets and plazas of downtown and the shopping districts, out to the suburbs, out to the far mountainsides where the homes of the great magus families stood. His search took him far across the city that many others had called home. Eventually, he felt it. A tinge of regret coming from someone other than himself. A voice came with it as he followed its trail. A woman’s voice. It rang out clear as day in his head as he got closer and closer.

_ “...don’t want to die…” _

The closer he got, the more clear it became. Gone was any hesitation as Angra poured all of his concentration and power into this one wish. 

_ “...I don’t want to die…” _

There it is. 

_ “My name is Bazett Fraga McRemitz, and I don’t want to die!” _

His nonexistent face contorted into an invisible smirk as he reached out even further with his last act as the Fuyuki Holy Grail. He would grant this woman’s wish. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t, what more did he have to lose? Like that hero of justice, apparently, since he literally couldn’t care less anymore. All his eggs were in this one broken basket.

**“Well then. Let’s see if I’m not as pathetic as I think I am.”**

He knew that this could very well result in his death. However, he also knew that he was about to die anyway. But beyond that, Angra Mainyu knew that he would die, be it now or in a day, or week, or a month from now. His existence was a curse, and when the embrace of nothingness came to him, he would accept it with open arms. 

But in the meantime, his power could be used.

This woman would be saved. She would live on.

He would make sure of it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here we are. 
> 
> I might write an epilogue or something, I don’t know. This has been up on FF.net for a while now, where my other writing lives at the moment. Big thanks for reading this!


End file.
